Tomorrow
by Clockwork Storyteller
Summary: Antonio Fernandez Carriedo lives alone in a big house, there is only one thing he really cares for. His solitude and peace. Maybe tomorrow he won't be alone. [Completed]


He had spent the day tending to his expansive garden. The clematis bloomed and defied all his attempts at killing it off. He had made his garden too resistant to damage that even he could not figure out how to rid himself of the plants. It was a useless task, to keep a garden. He lived in solitude since that time and he had no intention of being subjected to stares and pity.

The clematis he had tried to kill over and over but it defiantly reminded him that it symbolized much more. The clematis plant had been around for twenty years, back in a happier time. The roses had started to wither under his attack, and the tomatoes he did not dare try. They might be reminders of back then but they were also a source of food and he could not risk losing them to one of his capricious fits. The tomatoes were safe. Occasionally, he plucked a tomato and squeezed it until the juices ran down his hand in surrender. It was childish and he always regretted wasting food but for the moment in which he was watching the fruit burst, he felt soothed.

He pulled some weeds and burned the earth in which they grew, careful not to burn anything more. He had enough burning to last a lifetime already, he hated it so, so much. Before he knew it, the sun had set and he was working in the receding light of its rays. He heaved a heavy sigh and made his way back inside his lonely house, far too big for one man to live in alone, like he did.

The color of the sky was unfitting for his mood. It was bright and starry, the full moon visible and beautiful. He opened up his window and sat on the sill. How many times had he been given the chance to say it? He cursed at the moon and climbed back inside his room.

No, there was no second chance. It was too little too late. He had warned them all. He had screamed and cursed and told them this would happen. Still, a little part of him hoped he was wrong. It was what kept him going nowadays. The only thing he had left to hold to.

Hope. Stupid hope. He could hear the sirens and smell the fire. He walked out of his room and all the way down to the cellar. This time he would not even try to escape the fate to befall him.

He did not need anything now. He locked himself into the cellar and climbed down the stairs in a somber peace. It was all going to hell. He turned on the cellar light and touched the mirror that he had hidden long ago. The infection had taken over most of his face. He was definitely not going to make it.

He remembered the days when he used to smile and the afternoon siestas. No longer would he do any of that. It had been three months since he had last spoken to anyone. Piles of letters lay untouched on the couch. Bills were taken care of automatically now.

He had not answered any calls. He had listened to the ringing but disconnected voicemail. He no longer talked much hurt too much to do so. His throat had taken a bad hit during that time. He was blind in one eye, too.

There were days when he had tried to convince himself he was dreaming and this was a horrid nightmare he would wake from. He saw the scarring on his face and knew that all he had left was hope. He had been fooling himself the entire time. He walked away from the small mirror and found his way to a box.

This old box was from when he had been the boss._ El jefe._ He opened it up and pulled out a small green dress. Lovino. Lovino had once worn this old dress. It had been a humorous little joke taken too far.

That had been twenty years ago. Now Lovino was a grown man who would probably punch him for even suggesting he wear a dress. The thought of the Italian's indignant face and the scowl he was sure to face for a good ten minutes brought laughter from an unknown place.

It hurt to laugh, though, and he quickly gripped his chest when the pain replaced the humor. He wheezed and ran bony fingers across the fabric. Twenty years ago he had raised the orphan boy. Twenty years ago. His dry and cracked lips curled up into a smile. He would see Lovino again. Once he got better.

Sudden hope flooded him and he began thinking about the positive. He was hopeful again and he began to list what would happen. The scars could be fixed. His eyesight would be fixed, too. There were surgeries for those things now. The infection would be cured and the antibiotics he would take would make sure it never returned. His lungs would be fine after a little detoxification, as well and he would be able to laugh and sing again to his heart's content. He would reconnect with the boy he had helped raise, in a way.

He laughed, imaging Lovino calling him a deranged bastard. Lovino would be incredibly angry and he would only be this way because it was a shield for him not to say he had been worried. Of course, Antonio would understand. He would know deep down what it really meant. His laughter turned into coughs and then wheezes. Then his chest heaved and he tried to steady himself. He leaned on the wall and closed his eyes. Another fit of violent coughing took him over until he was too tired.

He closed his eyes, his hand still on the fabric of the dusty old dress. Tomorrow he would see Lovino. He would bring the young man right up to the house and show him the clematis, it was just as stubborn as he was. He would tell the younger that the flowering plant must have learned this trait from him and that it probably still blossomed better under Lovino's care. He would show him the tomatoes, and they would pick them in the old wicker basket. Lovino would probably throw a fit and chuck the basket at him at some point.

They would take a well-deserved siesta in the hammock that was in the shade and wake up in unflattering poses. Lovino would probably hold his hand and deny it to the ninth hell when he woke. He would laugh and tease the young man until the latter threatened to smack him. He could do all that and make it up to him with a hot plate of churros.

Tomorrow. His heartbeat slowed down. His breathing was less stressed. He lay still on the cold cellar floor. Tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow he would see Lovino. He would reconnect tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow never came.


End file.
